After a sunny day in Bayview, the clouds closed in around supper time and a cool south breeze rolled across Pictou Harbour.
We’ve been sticking pretty close to home the last few days, catching up on house chores and work emails. Duke, our eight-year old black lab mix, is slowly recovering from his first knee surgery earlier this week.
On Thursday, I took the afternoon shift with the doped-up dog and was scrolling social media when I came across a post promoting a walking ghost tour of Pictou.
I am not someone who is prone to flights of fancy, nor would I be described by my friends and family as impulsive. In fact, my best man made the explicit point that I am “not whimsical” at wedding reception speeches in two different countries. (Don’t worry: same marriage, two parties.)
But everything is new to me here and ghost stories, I thought, would be a good way to learn more history. Hayley had been encouraging me to get out of the house and go somewhere besides the hardware store and the wharf. I can take a hint every once in awhile. I signed up for the tour.
When Hayley met up with friends for an early dinner, I got busy preparing for the evening. I started by rubbing garlic around the collar of my shirt, then dug a well-traveled wooden case from the back of a closet. It held an old chain with a crucifix that belonged to my great-great-grandfather, who dabbled in the occult and is rumored to have performed unsanctioned exorcisms for cash. I pocketed one of Hayley’s makeup mirrors to discreetly ensure that everyone I spoke to had a reflection. Unfortunately, my silver bullets were back in Minnesota and there was no time to file a wooden stake. As a final precaution, I filled a small ziplock with salt and tucked it into my waistband. (Besides Hayley’s dinner, none of this stuff actually happened.)
The recently opened and highly regarded Sea Glass Coffee House in downtown Pictou served as the tour rendezvous. I entered and approached a man holding a clipboard and wearing the sharp black suit of a Victorian undertaker. A top hat and spectacles completed the look. I introduced myself and handed him a twenty. He directed me to sign a waiver.
I hadn’t been expecting this.
The form had a long paragraph on the top half of the page. The signature lines below it were empty. Maybe a dozen other people hung around the coffee shop waiting for the tour to start.
“I get it,” I joked. “People’s hair suddenly turning white, stuff like that?”
He remained stonefaced. So much for trying to be friendly.
Then again, I may have just insulted his profession. Okay, I thought, I’ll keep it to myself.
I signed the sheet and handed it back.
“Thank you,” I said. Half a beat passed. One more olive branch couldn’t hurt.
“I’m looking forward to the tour.”
He remained silent as he slid the clipboard into his leather satchel.
I probably should have read the contract.
Our guide ushered the group outside. She wore mostly black—sensible shoes, a skirt and belt, a hat, and a knit necklace that supported a golden cameo of a young woman frozen in time. Graying bangs danced above the guide’s glasses and two hatpins stood guard against the rising breeze. She tightened her shawl against the summer chill and introduced herself as a spiritualist and medium who has been working in Pictou for two decades.
“Does anyone smell baking bread?” she asked.
Everyone sniffed. A few women in the group raised their hands.
“You may be especially sensitive to psychic energy,” the guide told them.
We were still standing by the entrance to the coffee shop, which sells croissants and other pastries. I looked for a camera like Jim Halpert on The Office. No such luck.
Half a block later, we learned the reason for the mysterious question. Built in 1832 at the corner of Water and Kempt streets, the “Stone House” had originally been a bakery. The spectres of the former bakers were occasionally seen walking past windows on the upper floors.
Our walking tour continued. The undertaker trailed behind us bearing a lantern filled with string lights.
The tour group numbered 13. I hoped it wasn’t bad luck. What if I’d been the last one to sign up, setting us all on a collision course with destiny? Had I cast the unlucky die that would bind us together beyond this mortal realm, cursed to spend eternity trying to uncross the River Styx? Or worse, what if this was a coven and their familiar who were preparing to sacrifice me to fulfill some ancient pact?
Of course, I don’t believe in this stuff. But I don’t go looking for trouble either.
And, let’s be honest. If I’m alone at night, I sometimes hurry up the stairs after shutting off the lights. Don’t be proud, you do it too.
At the end of a story about a little girl whose spirit occupies the old theatre, one of my older tour companions tooted right as the tale reached peak intrigue. We all pretended not to notice. I hadn’t found this particular haunting to be quite so startling. To each their own.
Then again, it’s easy to be dismissive, to build walls of certainty around your life. And we all know people who have built their protective walls out of materials that are perhaps less than solid. Don’t believe me? Check out the cable news.
Some of the same folks who would immediately, mockingly, and irrevocably deny the existence of certain kinds of ghosts are in the front pews on Sunday. And science is not certainty but rather a process of discovery and refinement that only hopes to lead to greater understanding. There are many sunglasses on the spinning display at the convenience store, all of them with different lenses. Whether you live by religion or science or both or neither, you are choosing a philosophy by which to approach and try to understand existence. We believe, or not, what we want to believe.
I was born, baptized, and confirmed into the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA). As an adult, I don’t go to church but I agree with the institution’s philosophies—that we should love our neighbor, that religion should be truly welcoming and non-judgmental, that it’s good to be both rooted in tradition and open to the world in all its rich variety. But do I believe in my heart that God exists and Jesus died for my sins? With certainty? No. Do I believe that Martin Luther had a more direct line to truth or God than the Catholic Church? No. What about Buddhism? Reincarnation? Islam? Paganism? Different maps, different glossaries, different routes to the same destination that’s illustrated differently but ultimately unknown and, perhaps, unknowable.
Either way, I think it’s brave to run a business or live a life that’s outside of the mainstream. It takes courage to say, “This is who I am, and this is what I like, and this is what I’m going to do.” Plus, the tour was only twenty bucks. Money well spent.
We stopped at the town gazebo that hosts concerts, farmers markets, and community events. As the site of the town’s original market square and pillory, it’s filled with history—and energy, our guide reminded us. We were sitting on the benches in the gazebo. The decorative pinwheel near the medium spun wildly as she told stories, while the matching one on the other size of the structure barely moved. Maybe it was just the direction of the wind. Hmm.
Then we made our way to the waterfront, where an old train line used to come into town. It was low tide and the smell of brine and rot filled the air. Nearby residents report that they sometimes hear the rattle of phantom railcars and a lonely whistle along the harbour.
As the group moved back downtown, I saw a stray cat half a block uphill that appeared to be shadowing our route. It emerged again when we stopped at the Hector Heritage Quay, which hosts a museum commemorating the ship Hector’s perilous voyage from Scotland to Pictou. The cat disappeared under the fence by the Quay’s haunted blacksmith shop.
We looked out over the water as our guide described the Ghost Ship of the Northumberland Strait, then finished our night at Pictou’s long-defunct CN Station, literally the end of the line.
A streetlight flickered above the group. The medium invited us to stay to use some paranormal detection equipment. We could see if any spirits were with us right then.
I thought about it for a moment, then walked away into the dark.
As for the great beyond? I don’t know.
It’s more challenging, more intellectually honest, and more fulfilling, I think, to embrace living in the messy humanness of doubt and belief.
To reject certainty and the hubris that follows.
To try a little harder to be whimsical.
To keep a critical eye on things, yes, but to make sure that eye stays open to mystery.
To hope, to question.
To wonder.
Thanks for reading. If you enjoy Bayview Wonder, will you forward this email to a friend?
Think of those people you know who like to muse about the world, or someone who was once a teacher or mentor of yours, or someone you thought of recently but haven’t talked to in awhile. Add a short note to tell the person why you thought of them.
I think the world needs more wonder. Will you help spread it?
Thank you,
JJ Akin
A dandy piece of writing. I could almost follow your tour via my crystal ball, if not for the lingering cloudiness from the old pulp mill.
Another good tale, JJ. It’s fun and informative to follow your journey into Pictou County life.